This winter we have been entertained by a fluffy young rabbit who made a home in our yard. He’d spend time under a flowering crab tree, munching little apples, or seeds, or whatever that tree provides critters and birds during cold months. He’d hop to some bushes on the side of the porch, break off a twig from a mock orange bush, and munch on that. We enjoyed his company.

On Saturday we missed him. I looked closer at his favorite spot under the tree, and I saw tufts of brown fur, dots of red, and a trail leading about two yards toward the house from there. At that spot was a small, unmoving fluffy body being poked at by 3 large black crows.

What happened to end the rabbit’s life? We had a red fox passing through our yard in the summer, but we hadn’t seen it in months. The neighborhood dogs are yippy little things, not much larger than the rabbit. An eagle would have carried him off, I think.

I understand the circle of life. Nature gives, takes away, and sometimes cleans up the resulting mess. Not much remains of our little friend. I do miss watching him, especially in the morning.

“This is Lake Bertha in the Afternoon, brought to you from Lake Bertha, in the afternoon.” These words introduced a recorded radio broadcast from a summer week in northern MN. Each July our extended family rented an entire resort on Lake Bertha near Pequot Lakes. During those summer weeks we got to know aunts, uncles, and especially our cousins better than most of my friends knew theirs.

Sunset Knoll Resort was owned by George and Mary Terryberry – real names of people we did not get to know well. They took their own vacation during our week at the resort. We were reliable, and the men could repair anything that needed attention.

I learned to play bridge from the older generation; I played a mean game of shuffleboard, did lots of swimming, played my baritone ukulele for family sing-alongs on the beach, and enjoyed the simple pleasure of family. My aunt made oatmeal every morning; Dad made pancakes. We kids went from one breakfast table to the next, going in and out of the 8 cabins all day long. Evening meals were potluck, and Dad made beer-battered fish for fish fries.

Our “radio broadcast” was the brainchild of one of the older cousins, a sort of professional actor who was the spark behind our creative enterprise. It was a showcase for our creativity, writing silly words to familiar songs, creating and performing in a radio play with sound effects and spooky music. We wrote commercials for amazing, fantastic products. . .but wait, if you phone right now. . . When we were finished, we played it for the adults and enjoyed it all over again.

Magical memories. This was Lake Bertha in the afternoon.

When Maxi – that’s Moxie- came to live with my son and his wife, she was a fluffy adorable golden retriever puppy. She was playful, sweet, and devoted to them from the start. When Ingrid was born in 2000, Maxi sensed the importance of the event, and she became a protector, a caregiver, a loyal friend of the baby. When mom and baby took a walk, Maxi was there to be sure nothing threatened her family. As she and Ingrid grew, they bonded in all the important ways. Maxi was family.

As Maxi grew, she developed a unique persona. She was the alpha female, taking her role in the family very seriously. Fast forward to the birth of the second child. Maxi had an added responsibility and devotion. 

Among her endearing and annoying traits were an enormous appetite for people food and napkins. When she attended family picnics, she was alert to the little people and their food. If something hit the deck, it was fair game. She also watched laps with napkins. If they were accessible, they were available.

Maxi was always a sweet pet. When we’d spend time with her and the children, she’d keep a close eye on us, tail up, very alpha. Then she’d put her head on my knee, look up at me with warm eyes, accepting that we were part of the family, therefore tolerable.

She had reached the age of 13, that’s 91 in people years. She had stopped eating, and she seemed to know that her time had come. The family made the hard decision to put her to sleep. Nothing for pet lovers is harder than that. 

In elementary school we began our year writing about our vacations. Because we owned lake property, my summers were always the same. Six of us, plus at least one large dog, plus suitcases filled with everything we were sure we needed, plus food, headed north shortly after school let out. The cabin was rustic, the lake was appealing to the “fisherpeople” in the family and to me. I spent all day in my swimsuit, in and out of the water, more often in than out.

The only other big memories were our treks to “blueberry country,” a wooded area about 5 miles from the cabin. The bugs were irritating, but the wild blueberries and strawberries were such a treat that when I wasn’t in the water, I was in the woods – a net over my head, long sleeves, long pants, lots of bug repellent – with an ice cream pail I filled with berries. On weekends Dad made blueberry pancakes, and Mom made pies.

Dad left us at the lake during most weeks in the summer, but he always left the office early on Fridays to join us. It was a 3 1/2 hour trip; he couldn’t wait to get back to the family. During the week we were there without a car. If we needed something, we took the boat across the lake to a landing from which we walked to a little store.

Those early summers have been on my mind this week. I realize that my love of being in the water had its genesis in my childhood summers at the lake. We just got back from a wonderful week of swimming and reading. I told my tennis player that I am as happy in the water as he is on the tennis court. I think he believes me.

The heat of August began in May, and it has stuck around far longer than I would choose. The gazebo, where we spent so many pleasant hours last summer, is less inviting when the temperatures hover around 90 with sticky dew points. I am very spoiled with air conditioning in our home, cars, workplace, and stores. When India lost its power grid last week, I realized how dependent we are on everything that is powered by electricity.

The resources on which we depend are not renewable. Knowing that, we continue to exploit them, sacrificing tomorrow on the altar of today’s comfort and convenience. I applaud those who now heat and cool with geo-thermal or solar devices. Their immediate rewards are lower electric bills, but the long-term rewards belong to the environment.

In these last months before election day finally arrives, I want to hear some real discussion about clean air and water, about protecting the wilderness and its creatures, preserving the forests, reducing pollutants that have invaded our lakes and rivers, and providing a safe and healthy food supply for everyone. Safe neighborhoods are high on my list of priorities, as is support for our schools and for dedicated, hard-working teachers.

I know this country has caring people who share my concerns. We make progress toward peaceful, successful solutions in baby steps. All I can do is listen to what is and isn’t being discussed by politicians; then I will vote with my conscience, considering more than one or two issues that have divided our people as I cast my ballot.

Rummage Sale preparations are always interesting. Once again our church members have gone through closets, cupboards, garages, and rooms to find clothing, dishes, phones, books, electronics, and furniture they can live without. Boxes and bags are dropped off in designated areas, and the workers begin the task of finding places to display things.

The book room is overflowing with titles and topics old and new. There are VHS tapes, books on tape, CD’s and DVD’s, many of which were expensive, alongside the hard cover and paperback books. We have at least 6 television sets; people have gone to the flat screens and shared their big deep sets with us.

This year we have more games and puzzles than usual; we overflowed to a second long table to accommodate that. Last year’s sale had very few children’s toys and games; this year we have a room plus an area in the main room filled.
And baskets came in droves – each day when I arrive I think they’ve multiplied.

Today I took the morning off to spend time with a friend. We went to garage sales.

I always get warmer when I read that the temperature is 90, feels like 103. I realize that’s the idea of identifying the heat index or whatever it’s called. It works. This is one of those days.

Gardens are doing well, but grass is beginning to have brown patches. I associate that with August, but then all spring has been a month ahead of itself.

We spent 5 days at a lake cabin, swimming and reading. The bugs were so hungry that we didn’t spend much time out of doors where they do their feeding. Where do biting bugs fit in the food chain?

I remember picking wild blueberries when I was younger. It was warm in the woods as much because of the necessary cover-up attire as the temperature. I wore netting over my face, lots of bug repellent on my hands because picking tiny berries doesn’t happen when one wears gloves. Socks were high on my legs under long pants. Still the deer flies managed to find places to sting. The blueberries were wonderful in pancakes, in muffins, in pies, on cereal. I must have thought it was worth the swollen ankles.

Somehow I find all the political nastiness of this pre-election time as annoying as the insidious biting bugs. I feel an urge to scream, or growl, or cry, sometimes all at once. I do hope that after November has come and gone, I no longer want to do those things.

My tennis player is playing outside this morning. They began at 8, but I suspect they are feeling the temperature. I’m in the gazebo with the overhead fan moving the air; it’s almost pleasant.

My day began in the garden where I tied up the tomato plants. I wore my gardening shirt (long sleeves) and jeans. Mosquitoes lie in wait there, and I’ve learned about covering up any possible avenue of invasion. I tie a big handkerchief, hippie-style, around my forehead, and I probably discourage the bugs as much by my bizarre appearance as the lack of open skin. It was only 80 degrees when I got back inside to put on cooler duds.

When I was a child, I never seemed to notice the heat. Our family trips to the lake were made in a car without A/C, 6 people, a big dog, coolers, boxes of food, suitcases, and open windows. We sang, in harmony, all the good old songs, did lots of playful scuffling, and tried to get Dad to stop at the DQ in Brainerd. He had a back road to avoid Paul Bunyan land, and we were told we “couldn’t get there from here.” The fact that by then we were only 30 minutes from the cabin made that work for him.

I do believe this summer is hotter than those summers, but it was what it was. We knew the respite of the water, but I don’t recall feeling the heat as I do now. Therefore, there is more of it this summer.

I do think about those for whom there is no relief from this hot time. I wish for them a sprinkler through which to run, or a mall to walk, or a break in the weather. After all, this is Minnesota where temperature change is abrupt and comfort could be just minutes away.

For the second time in 25+ years we are victims of credit card fraud. Fortunately the credit card company caught it in its early hours, called, and we canceled our card. It began yesterday afternoon following the use of the card at a medical facility. The person behind the counter took the card to the back to make the charge. Within hours the card number was used on line to purchase things we often do purchase – groupons, itunes. Something alerted the company today when two more charges were made. I tend to be pretty trusting, and this kind of event is so unsettling.

We have 12 regular monthly charges on our card including PBS, MPR, VEAP. When our new cards arrive, we’ll have to get in touch with all 12 to change the number. That part is simply annoying. The part that is troubling is the theft. I can understand desperation, hungry families, homelessness causing temptations, but this is definitely not that kind of thing. This was frivolous spending, possibly causing problems for someone’s employment if fraud is involved.

The first time we had this experience was right around the Christmas holidays. The cards were stolen from the mail before they ever reached our neighborhood. We were told at that time that a seasonal mail carrier had been charged with several thefts. We were called because charges were made in Fridley where we had never shopped. Since then we alert the credit card company when we plan a trip outside the country, or outside our normal travel areas.

Time will make this seem less of a violation, but right now I’m feeling uneasy and vulnerable.

Dad was a gentle man who loved his family and the little town we called home. On his first drive through Gaylord he was enchanted by its location on a lake that was just an hour from the cities. His love of music got him into an orchestra directed by the woman who would become his wife. Together they made music and a musical family would come of their union.

His would be the second dental practice in that little community, and that gave him time to devote to other passions. Hunting and fishing, golf and canoeing, making adventures for his children, and making music in the community band filled his life outside the office.

He developed strong community roots serving on hospital and school boards, being awarded a silver beaver in scouting,and making sure that no one who needed dental treatment was turned away from his office door. Much of his “income” during my childhood came from “in kind” payments of garden produce, meat, poultry, and eggs, or an exchange of services. We were blessed by the good people in that place, and Dad was a blessing in many lives at the same time.

Making English toffee was a special talent of Dad’s. He’d begin making candy before Thanksgiving, and he often had made 50 batches by Christmas. He gave it to friends, offered it at fundraisers, and we always had some at home during the holidays. He’d be proud to know that all four of his children still make toffee with his technique, and it still pleases people who enjoy it at holiday time.

I have wonderful memories of my father who spent his last years living with us in Bloomington. On this day to honor fathers, I miss him more than usual.